William had exactly ten toes, which didn't do much, save collect various bits of lint, and wiggle absentmindedly whenever William stepped out of the shower. They helped to fill out his socks and shoes, and were occasional paired, as William saw fit.

He had exactly two feet, a nice compliment to the toes. As feet go, they were quite ordinary- a size ten and a half, which is average for full-grown males in America. On them he donned dark socks and loafers or dress shoes, white socks and the occasional athletic sneaker, or no socks and sandals. The loafers were brown, the dress shoes were black, the sneakers were white, and the sandals, like the dress shoes, were also black.

For William, these feet were not a subject of serious or considerable thought. His feet helped to hold up his body- they had a slight odor after a day of work or a weekend of play. They had they usual blue veins visible on their tops through the skin, and these veins portrayed patterns which meant nothing, absolutely nothing. In all things, they were barely worthy of the entirety of four letters: feet, and simply so.

William also had exactly two legs, which were of average length, and of average hairiness, which is to say, neither bearish, nor bald. He used his legs most often to walk around his apartment, to his car, from his car into the office, and back through all of that at the end of the day. On weekends, and the occasional evening during the week, they moved him to restaurants, movie houses and dance clubs. At the latter, he was a mediocre dancer. During the course of any given summer, his legs might be found standing on a beach once or twice, wearing shorts, and in the winter, they were wont to being stretched in front of the television.

They wore pants, mostly, those occasional beach visits notwithstanding. Dark pants, as was the normal dress for accounting consultants, black for formal occasions, brown and blue for others. The knees of William's legs bent these pants at just the right angle to justify the creases his cleaners put in them.

Above Williams legs, or rather, between them, hung his penis and testicles. The latter were coated with curly pubic hair. His penis he used for the elimination of liquid waste- once when he awoke, twice during the day, and once before going to bed. The testicles produced the normal amount of semen, which his penis ejaculated into a condom when he had sex with his girlfriend, on average three times per week. He was a sensitive lover, and had his orgasm about the same time as his girlfriend, going usually to sleep afterward, and occasional waking later to perform once more. At these times his penis was erect, as it occasional was as he slept.

Behind these organs were his buttocks, hidden in which was the device for eliminating solid waste. He visited the restroom for this purpose on average of two times every three days. William was a folder, not a wadder, for those who wonder about such things.

Above the butt, William's waist. It was of average breadth- he wore for leisure during the cooler months Levis 501's with a 33 inch waist size. At work, he also wore a belt around this waist. His girlfriend was fond of placing her hand on one of these "hips" whenever they walked from the aforementioned dance clubs.

Inside his torso, William kept all of his major organs. His kidneys were normal kidneys, and would be perfect for anyone needing them, and as William had signed the back of his driver's license, they might someday fulfill that need. His liver was for the most part undamaged, having only suffered the usual amounts of alcohol one consume's in college, and after, the occasional martini, beer, or on special occasions, champagne.

William's stomach was healthy, and had no trouble handling the fair his appetite offered to it. He ate spicy food if he had a craving, or bland food, or rich food, or flat food. He neither fed it too much caffeine, nor too little water; it was rarely queasy, and almost never upset. His dining schedule was mundane- he ate a light breakfast of toast and cereal, with coffee and juice in the morning before work; for lunch, he usually visited a local diner and had a sandwich or soup as the weather saw fit; and for his evening meal, if he was not eating out, he made for himself meat and potatoes, or salads, or pasta and sauce, or whatever.

The muscles around his stomach were as flat as sit-ups allowed them to be- his girlfriend referred to it as a "tummy," which belied the roundness it might someday achieve, through the normal passage of time.

The lungs with which he breathed would be described by a physician as "healthy and pink." He treated them to the normal city smogs, but that was only occasionally, as William lived in an average city. He didn't smoke, nor did his associates, and he'd only offered them two marijuana cigarettes when he was in college, from which they'd recovered. They inhaled as needed when he made the occasional jog, and sighed as desired when the television was inevitably dull. Altogether, just lungs.

His heart was about the size of his fist, and beat regularly, faster during sex or exercise, and rather slow during sleep. The blood that ran through it was rich and red, or blue, as in the veins in his feet, when it was oxygen-free, having done it's job of feeding muscle. It would be valuable to any donor center, though it had never occurred to William to donate his vitae.

Outside of his upper body, William had the requisite pectorals, which were shaped normally and healthily. He had two nipples, which seemed to serve no function.

William had two shoulders that helped to wear the various shirts, jackets, and coats that he owned. For work, these shoulders supported white shirts- at leisure, they supported print t-shirts or simple short-sleeves. They wore jackets of a dark hue to match his pants, belt, shoes, and socks. His coats were bland.

He had arms, two of them as well, which can only be described as working chiefly with his two hands and ten fingers. They were instrumental in a variety of tasks. They operated the shower knobs when he bathed, then dried him off. They dressed him. They fixed his meals; mixing ingredients only as fast as his hunger demanded. They helped to operate his blue car as he drove it to work. They typed on the computer, and the right one filled out forms, and signed his name, William R. Johnson, to checks. They held a tennis racquet every once in a while, helping him to win mainly half of the time. They opened doors, along with his shoulders, and swayed when he danced, masturbated his penis once or twice per week, washed themselves, held books open, flipped channels on the television, and did all the other things that hands, taken for granted, do, and that is all that they did, which is to say, they almost never did anything only once.

Back up William's arms and to his neck. Around his neck William wound a neck-tie, somber in nature, which he had been given by his father when he entered college. If the tie ever wore out, he would probably buy one exactly like it.

William's chin was shaven every morning, as were his cheeks and the area above his lips. His chin was not cleft, nor did his cheeks bulge. His teeth were straight and white, his lips, thin and red. His nose was not large; nor was it sharp. It grew nose hairs, which he snipped every so often. His cheek bones were not prominent; his freckles were not very noticeable.

His eyes had black pupils and corneas that were blue, and if his eyes were windows, they looked on a rather unexciting room. They saw things 20/20. They watched prime time television, or popular movies, or bestseller fictions. They looked at William's girlfriend, and at the other cars on the road, and at his desk at work. They rolled when he slept and dreamed about mildly anxious situations, or blithely pleasant situations, or shruggingly normal weird situations. They blinked in the wind. Along with his eyes, his lashes were lashes, his brows brows.

His ears heard things: the sounds he made at home, the speeches given by his bosses and associates, the music on the car radio, the laughter on the television, the voice of his girlfriend. They recognized familiar noises and ignored them if they conveyed no message, like traffic, or the weather, or other people's conversations in public. They liked mainstream pop at home, and maybe something faster when he danced. They held up sunglasses, along with his nose, when it was bright out.

On top of his head, he kept light brown hair, which was was cut to business length about once per month.

Inside his head, there was housed William Johnson's brain. It was the same brain he'd had since he was a child, when he used it to learn how to control his bodily functions, then speak, then dress himself, doing these things all at ages that one would expect. His brain afforded him A's and B's through grade school. It produced the hormones to makes his bones ache when he was in junior high and going through puberty. It moved him through high school. It survived college, and seemed suited to a business degree. It helped to get him a job, and helped him to keep it. It decided what was going to be worn on his body, what was going to be done with the current projects at work, and what to eat at night. It told him to laugh at the t.v., and to frown at the movies. It made him drowsy at night.

It engaged in thoughts that chiefly had to do with whatever was occurring to him at the time, and whenever William had nothing to do, it asked him to do something so that he could think about it. It did not have a hobby.

With this brain, William did most everything. He voted in all the elections, after carefully weighing the merits of each candidate, then invariably going with the incumbent. William had the tires rotated, purchased groceries, called his mother, mailed birthday cards, read the newspaper, paid his taxes, looked at street signs, bought Christmas gifts, sat in chairs, breathed air, and existed.

And that was all. That was everything there was to be to William Johnson.

He was motivated to get up each morning by the morning itself, and to go to bed by the night. He ate when he was hungry, visited the restroom when he felt he needed to do so, satisfied his normal desires, and pretty much just occupied space and produced.

He was the single most normal man in the United States.

Except.

Any psychology book or professor, or any person who has thought about such things, will tell you that absolutely everybody has at least one thing about them that makes them unique. At least one quirk, or at least one past event, or at least one desire, that makes them like no one else, ever. Maybe it's as innocuous as a love of peanuts, or as shocking as an affiliation with the Nazi's. Maybe one likes nudie pictures, or stock car races, or toads, or words that begin with the letter 'M'. Maybe one was once in the circus, or wants to be a legislator. Oddities need not be exotic, or extensive, or even considerable, though they can be. Everyone in the whole wide world has something about him or her that is interesting, if only fleetingly so. Big feet. Tiny hands. A missing vertebrae. Photographed as a child for the town paper. Thinks Jesus was very short. The quirk need not be defining, and indeed, can contradict in every way the real essence of the person. As in a nun who is into basketball, or a construction worker into Shakespeare, or a podiatrist into fingernails. Most professionals are already interesting: doctors, lawyers. Artists are automatically fascinating. The rich are to be perused, as are the poor. Ugly people and beautiful people. The fat, the skinny. The dumb, the brilliant. Old and young. Those for whom one has a deep and intense hatred, and those with whom one shares a passionate and abiding love. All these possess the incongruity that makes them fit.

But not William Johnson. He was unhated, mildly loved. He was unenvied, and he bore no one's pride. He was only as important as any replaceable part is important. He was a capital letter at the beginning, a period at the end, with exactly one comma in the middle and absolutely no italicized words. Vanilla ice cream. A suburban house. Sand.

He lived, and then he died. That is his story, and perhaps I will tell it to you, but if I do, I will do so in a way that will make you forget it, and not regret the loss.